


Attuned

by ivorygates, synecdochic



Series: attention [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Cameron Mitchell Goes Commando, Daniel Has Issues, Kinky sex, M/M, The Bed Was On Fire When I Sat Down On It, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-22
Updated: 2007-09-22
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates, https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attuned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synecdochic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [attention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6360031) by [synecdochic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic). 



When he makes it back to the bedroom, Jackson's naked, so Cam just lets his jeans hang open while he toes off his sneakers. He needs to more peel the jeans off than just slide them down, and he's more than a little nervous, because Jackson's face isn't giving him any clues at all.

On the other hand, the man's _naked._

Last thing to come off is his shirt, and he sucks in while he peels it off—he's already given Jackson one helluva show, but show's not over yet. The thin material sticks to his skin. It's damp with sweat. He drops it on the floor, on his jeans.

"Come over here," Jackson says. He sounds oddly formal, and even though Cam has a good idea of what's going to happen next—has, in fact, been pushing things in this direction all goddamned afternoon—it suddenly occurs to him that he actually doesn't have _a single fucking clue_ about what's going to happen next.

But he takes a couple of steps forward, and that brings him almost to the foot of the bed. There's no footboard. Just a headboard. White sheets. Not even a blanket. He cocks his head, looking at Jackson. A little puzzled, because he knows Jackson well enough to know that no matter what they're about to do, he doesn't mean Cam to come any closer to him, and, well, there just aren't that many other places to go in here.

And suddenly Jackson's moving, so fast it's an effort for Cam to keep himself from flinching. Closing the space between them, coming up behind him—Cam can feel the heat coming off Jackson's body even though the room is warm—and suddenly Jackson plants a hand between his shoulderblades and _shoves,_ and Cam goes face-down into the bed.

And Cam grins to himself, knowing he's _still_ ahead on points. He intends to keep it that way. Jackson kicks Cam's legs apart, giving himself access, and he hears the snick and sputter of the lube (he has no idea where it was. Never mind.) And then Jackson's sliding one finger in, then two. It's neither rough nor gentle. It just _is._ And Cam knows that means it's time to change things up a little.

"So's that the best you can do? Yeah, wonderin' why I'm even bothering, you told me I was supposed to be all scared of your attention but this ain't nothin' I can't do to myself at home if I want to..."

And the fingers are gone, and Jackson's pressing in—one long slow sweet burning glide—and he laughs, as if Cam's said something terribly amusing (though as far as Cam has ever been able to tell, nothing much amuses Jackson) and stretches himself out along Cam's back, just for a moment, and just as Cam is adjusting to the heat and the pressure, he bites the nape of Cam's neck. Hard. The shock of it—pain and pleasure and _contact_ —goes right down into his gut, and Cam thinks, _oh, yeah, that's gonna leave a mark._

Jackson's weight is on his back, his voice is in his ear, whispering syllables in a language Cam can't speak but has no trouble at all interpreting as filthy, and Cam's laughing and _laughing_ because round three is going to him too and he _knows_ Jackson _knows_ it and he _knows_ it's driving Jackson bugfuck insane...

Because this has nothing at all to do with surrender. It's about __taking. It's about the way he can take anything Jackson can dish out, and he knows Jackson's not going to trip across something he won't like. There are a few things. More than a person might think. But he _knows_ Jackson, and he knows Jackson won't hit on them, and so the more Jackson tries to fuck him through the mattress the more he _wins..._

And Jackson straightens up—not all the way—and kicks his legs apart a little more and _leans,_ and says, "Yeah, you just want someone to fuck you like a little whore, don't you?"

And Cam _grunts_ and tries to get a bit of leverage, but Jackson's got his knees wedged into the crooks of Cam's and Cam can't get his elbows down on the bed to push with. He's never heard Jackson talk like this, not _ever._ Didn't think he _could._ And it's enough to make him want to pant like a goddamned dog. Because there's this filthy gutter rasp to his voice, and he can see Jackson's face in his mind, and thinking of it, and hearing _that voice_ is enough to set him on fire all over again.

Jackson's hand has moved up from between his shoulderblades. Now it's on the nape of his neck, over the bite-mark, pressing him down, down, _down._ He can't tell if Jackson's enjoying himself right now or not, but he doesn't actually _fucking care._ He just breathes out with a huff and says, "Yeah, maybe I do, but at least I picked _you_ to do it, so you shouldn't be talking down to me too much."

And Jackson laughs again—a little breathless—and Cam knows he's scored another point. And then he slams his hipbones up against the curve of Cam's ass, buried way up deep inside him, and says—still calm, still filthy—"Oh, trust me, it wasn't an insult."

And he's still not sure whether that means it wasn't an insult or it was, so hell, he figures he'll go ahead and insult right back. "You used to fucking whores, then?"

And Jackson answers, "Only the ones who ask for it."

And a year ago this would have been the weirdest conversation _ever,_ both for subject and place. Now? Does not even make the Top Ten. And he tips his hips back so Jackson gets a better angle, pushes his ass back against Jackson's hips, and snarls, "We talking or we fucking here?"

And Jackson says, "Oh, I find it's so much more fun when it's _both,"_ and don't _that_ just go to show....

And Cam decides that if it's _the last thing he does_ he is going to _shut Jackson up._ One way or the other. So he rocks his hips again. Back, forth. Fucking himself back against Jackson's cock, just the way he likes it, and he doesn't fucking _care_ if Jackson's enjoying it or not. And his cock is rubbing against the sheets, Jackson's sheets, and there's a certain perverse delight in the knowledge that Jackson's gonna have to change the sheets if he doesn't want to wake up in the middle of the night smelling Cam all over them. He's gonna mark the man, any way he can. And the thought of that is hot all by itself, in a way that's in a whole other fucking _universe_ from what he's doing right now. From what's being done to him.

Because ... more than the sex (which is smoking hot) it's a way _in._ Not in the sense of gaining admittance to the clique, but into figuring things out. And Cam's always liked figuring things out. People. Machines. Systems. He's pretty good at it. And you learn a lot about a person by fucking them. Letting them fuck you. And Jackson's telling him, without words, without anything more than body and skin, that Cam was right and there's a hell of a lot of emotion simmering under there that Jackson just never lets out.

Ever.

And if Cam is going to do what he came to the SGC to do (and he means to) he needs to learn more than his job. He needs to learn his team. The things they'll never tell him in words. And he needs to learn them before he _needs_ them.

And so he's listening to Jackson's body with the backs of his thighs and the small of his back, with the noises Jackson's making and the rasp of his breath, and maybe Jackson's right, maybe Cam _should_ be talking, because if he figures out what makes Jackson hold his breath and what makes Jackson breathe faster, maybe he'll have a fucking _clue_...

So he figures a good place to start is by throwing Jackson's own words right back at him. And he says, "Tell me what you're thinking right now."

And Jackson says, breathless and distracted, "Whether or not this is going to be worth it."

And okay, that stings, because—fucking him has never been a _hardship_ before. So maybe Cam's a little snippy when he says, "Whether what will be, fucking me?"

"No, going through all this again," Jackson answers, and _oh_ yeah, that answers a hell of a lot of questions. Even some Cam hadn't thought to ask, because the military teaches you a lot of things, including that there are some things it's much safer not to think about. Ever.

But that is oh-so-damned-far from the point right now, and what he says is (just a little amazed that he can string so many words together coherently): "Well, _I_ think so. But hell, that's just me. Ever'body's entitled to his own opinion."

And now Jackson's shifted his weight enough that Cam can finally get a little leverage. Enough to push up. Push back.

And Jackson makes an amused sound, enough for Cam to know he scored another point—he's really racking them up—and does something in return with his hips that used to be illegal in eight states. "Yes," he says, thoughtfully, "I suppose so."

And—yeah, Jackson gets off on words, Cam could have told you that, but he's never even thought about how much Jackson has sex inside his own head before he has it anywhere else, and dammit, this is more than a bit ridiculous, because the man doesn't really seem to be _paying attention_. So he turns his head a little more—just enough leeway to do that—and says, "Hell, if you got something better to do, I can go on home."

He can see Jackson's face now—just barely, just out of the corner of his eye—and the expression might almost be scary if he didn't have the man plastered to him right now and know just what his body's thinking even if he doesn't have much of a clue about his mind. And Jackson braces on one hand, shifting his weight, and that frees up the other, and he slides it up Cam's torso. Rubs his palm over the nipple, then pinches. _Hard_. And just for an instant the world whites out, and Cam hears static hissing in his ears, and when it fades, he hears Jackson's voice. "No. Nothing better. Not right now."

"Then are we fucking or are we talking?" Cam manages, and Jackson comes back with: "You were the one who asked."

Yeah, okay, he'll cop to that, but—he's been let loose a little, now, Jackson's not grinding him down into the bed anymore, and that gives him some leeway. He pushes himself up on his elbows, then up to his palms, and Jackson lets him, even though the angle makes that long _deep_ stroke unreachable for the time being. Then he considers what to do next. And what he wants to do next, really wants to do, is brand the image of him naked and spread out and begging for it into Jackson's head, indelibly. Sense-memory, smell-memory, visuals and tactiles and yeah, he wants to fucking _own_ this bed he's getting fucked on, to make Jackson _be here_. So he gets a knee up onto the edge of the bed—Jackson grabs his hip, pulling Cam's ass back against his cock, but even though his fingers are going to leave a bruise, it's not enough protest to tell Cam to stop. Cam's a little proud of the coordination that lets him get his weight off the floor completely and get the _other_ knee up onto the bed too, without letting Jackson slip free. That's grace and skill for you.

"Yeah," Jackson says, dark and dirty all over again, like a click, like he's flipped a switch inside his head and gone just where Cam wants him to go, "you go ahead and ask for it like that." And it _should_ piss Cam off but instead it just makes his cock twitch harder.

"Askin' ain't gettin," he manages to get out, and that's the _last_ thing he manages to say, because then Jackson's got one hand dug into his hip, and the other one fisted around Cam's cock.

And oh, hell fuck _yeah_ , because that's it, that's what he's been chasing. Cock up in him and a hand around his own, and finally Jackson's at _just_ the right angle that each stroke's hitting the sweet spot dead on, and Cam drops his head down against the sheets again and stretches his arms out, reaching up and far, on his knees, prostrating himself against the sweet hot rush. Just like this, ass up in the air, everything he'd been fantasizing for _months_ and so damned good that he can't hold on to wondering if Jackson's getting anything out of this or not. But then again, Jackson doesn't seem to have any complaints.

Cam arches his back, stretches his arms out further across the bed, because if he doesn't, he's going to do something stupid like reach back behind him and _touch_ Jackson, need to _hold on_ , and he's just aware enough to know that'd be the stupidest damn thing he could do right now. Oh, sure, Jackson's touching _him_ , but this is a one-way street and he's damn well enjoying the stroll. He's gasping for air, now, like he's been running, and oh Lordy, the finish line is in sight. He can feel it, coiling up the base of his spine like lightning. And over the sound of his own breathing—ragged, gasping, growling sounds as the air is forced out of his lungs with each thrust—he can hear the sounds Jackson's making. Counterpoint. Shorter. And he thinks—finally—not really thinking in words any more—that even if Jackson had something to say at just this minute, maybe he couldn't find the words to say it.

So he bites down on his lip and rocks himself into Jackson's hand, against Jackson's cock, pleasure in both directions, and _yeah_ , like _that_ , and he lets the noises he's making and the way his body's moving speak for itself.

 _Dare you to_ , it's saying. _Dare you._

And Jackson—did he ever think he wouldn't?—takes him up on the dare. Squeezing and thrusting and it's about as cuddly as getting fucked by a _leopard_ , but Sweet Jesus, that's part of the thrill. And Jackson does something just right, and suddenly Cam's clawing at the bed sheets as his body tries to turn itself inside out on him, and he forgets about Jackson entirely. It's not—precisely—that he passes out. He just stops paying attention for a while.

He's not sure how long it takes, and he's not even really sure what's going on around him when he's done, and there's a dim sense somewhere _far_ far away that Jackson's got his knees between Cam's thighs (which are down on the bed now, yeah, somewhere in there he toppled over, boneless, pliant) and Jackson's maneuvered Cam until he's pulled up on Jackson's cock in a way that feels like it'd probably _pull something_ if he wasn't so damn _limp_ right now (and he doesn't mean like that, except that too, he's fucking _wiped_ ; Jackson might have killed him) and somewhere in the distance there are words coming out of his mouth, just a string of random words like " _fuck_ " and " _yeah_ " and " _fuck me_ " and " _shit, shit, shit._ "

And Jackson doesn't laugh at it, because he's too busy driving himself into Cam's body over and over, short sharp strokes so deep Cam feels like to bursting, and it's _exactly what he wanted_. Just this. Just like that. Where he doesn't have to think for a while, just feel, just lie back and let the sensations wash over him.

It's being done to and in a strange way done _for_ , though this part is all for Jackson now; Cam's barely an observer. But he knows—or he'll know later, when he takes this out and looks at it—that Jackson's letting him _in_. Even if Cam's the one on the bottom here, and even if sex and fucking and all the rest of it can be just as damned impersonal as a chain hotel room, he doesn't think it is for Jackson. It's always personal. But a lot of stuff is, if you listen to gossip. And sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn't. A lot of the things people've said about Jackson are just too damned hard to believe.

He feels like this could just go on forever. But then Jackson makes a sound like he's being strangled, and grinds his hips—hard—against Cam, and Cam can feel Jackson's whole body shake.

And yeah, that's it. That's what he was chasing. That one second where Jackson's skin tells him there's nothing going on in there but white noise.

Cam knows about it being too crowded in your own head. And he knows a lot of ways to get away from that. But—he thinks, now—Jackson's head is that crowded _all the time_. And Cam doesn't think that most of the things that work for him work for Jackson. And he thinks it must be pretty damned exhausting to live so crowded all the time. And it's weird, because he started this and it was about his want, but maybe it's about Jackson wanting too.

He nods (to himself, inside.) Have to be about both of them wanting, or stands to reason it'd never have gotten this far. But he thinks (or he will, later, when he's thinking again) that what he was after wanting was pretty damned simple, in comparison. And that might maybe make him a little sad. But it won't—dear Lord—make him _pity_ Jackson, because Cam has a well-honed survival instinct, and he knows damned well for sure and certain that Jackson would _know_. So right now he just stretches himself out, twines a fist in the sheets. (They're filthy, of course. Left his mark, he did.) Just drifts on it, Jackson's weight warm and solid against his back where he collapsed, and breathes, in and out. Soft and centered. Higher brain functions, yeah, that'll take a while, but this? This is nice.

And apparently Jackson— _Daniel_ , when a man's still got his cock up your ass you can call him by his first name—agrees, because he isn't moving either.

And later on, maybe, Cam'll devote some time to thinking about how the man is as weird as snake shoes. Or maybe he won't. Because when all is said and done, they're teammates. And in Cam's book, that trumps everything else.

#


End file.
